MOURNING WITH MARGARET

 Do you not know how bleeding
 Leaves your mind and guts unheeding?
 Bleed; you are not like man, you
 With your ripe pear contracting, are you?
 Hm. As the end grows nearer
 You may come to hold it dearer;
 Rich within, your secret din
 Sits muffled by your heart of tin;
 And yet you will take it on the chin.
 Now no matter, lady, the course.
 A pear can ride a horse.
 For this autumn you sent; it came
 in gusts ghosting, no name:
 It is the blight woman is torn for;
 It is the seed you mourn for.

        ---moi, miss tiffany lee brown
    (written in 120 seconds, part of my Two-Minute Poem of the Day series)